


Six Feet Under

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: sentinel_thurs, Gen, Sentinel Thursday, TSbyBS angst, TSbyBS missing scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-19
Updated: 2010-09-19
Packaged: 2020-03-14 14:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18949915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Blair's cleaned out his office at Ranier, but he still has to dispose of the remains.





	Six Feet Under

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 354 ("store")

He sets the last box on top of the stack he's made in the far corner carefully, as if it really matters, as if it wasn't just pens and his " ~~Geology~~ Anthropology Rocks" coffee mug, baskets, books, folders, papers…Trash. Wreckage. The rubble left behind after the abrupt proof that he's been willfully — shortsightedly, stubbornly, unthinkingly — playing with a shitload of dynamite these past few years, rubble which he has no idea why he bothered to pack up and bring here.

Bring _here_. He sighs. This is Jim's space, not his. He's subverting it, using 307's basement locker to store this stuff without saying anything to Jim; sort of like sneaking a dead body in while Jim isn't looking, while he's probably staring instead in pained disbelief at whatever Cascade General, in its greater wisdom, has decided he deserves for his last meal before it sets him free to limp out its doors, back into the wonderful world of Wonderburgers and Mr. Tubesteaks.

The box he just put down isn't lined up perfectly with the box beneath it and for no reason he can think of he shifts it a little to line it up better. The boxes beneath it aren't lined up perfectly either, though, and five minutes later he finds himself next to a precisely graduated stack of boxes, each centered on the box below with scary exactitude, and he's breathing hard and his left thumb is throbbing like he jammed it against something, and he doesn't remember doing any of it.

Which probably isn't all that good a sign. And he can't just stand here beside this stack of boxes all day, even if he wants to, which he doesn't. He doesn't. What's dead is dead. 

So he ought to go. 

Now. 

He ought to go check on Jim now. On Simon. Megan. He ought to figure out what the hell else to do with his day after he checks on Jim and Simon and Megan, what to do with his _life_ after he checks on Jim and Simon and Megan. He ought to go pick up some empty boxes from Don's Beverages, just in case his former office isn't the only thing he needs to pack up today.

He ought to finish up the rest of the finishing. He fingers the laminated card in his pocket, soon to be gone; it's not like he's going to get to keep it, even as a souvenir stuffed into a box and buried.

What's dead is dead. Of course, he's living proof himself that that isn't always true. But as he locks the door behind him, he isn't thinking of unlikely, unlooked-for resurrections; he's thinking that bringing the boxes down here was probably inevitable. It's a basement, after all, and underground: six feet — more than six feet — under. ;


End file.
